


time fer a new tradition

by foxkillskat



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Birthday, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Mild Language, No Sex, Post-Time Skip, SakuAtsu, Touching, atsumu is a good boy (fer the most part), motoya is a little gremlin, no beta we die like daichi, nothing graphic, omi is mr thirsty, vaguely dark thoughts / self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28800516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxkillskat/pseuds/foxkillskat
Summary: Sakusa Kiyoomi’s birthday tradition checklist:* fancy silk robe* top-of-the-line sheet masks* copious amounts of champagne* enough charcuterie to feed a small army* Miya Atsumu and his talented handsWait… who put that last one on there?
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 36
Kudos: 330
Collections: skts





	1. Old Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> OH HO HO! yer (least) fave redneck foxkillskat here to serve as yer personal party planner!!! 🎉
> 
> i dont know much bout fancy parties, but i sure have spent a birthday or two (or four) drinkin straight out the bottle, knee-deep in the mud pit. therefore, i gotta ask: whats a birthday without a good mess?? (sorry omi) 
> 
> lets see how long til i have our boys drinkin straight out the got dang bottle!!! enjoy the mess!!
> 
> p.s. we all know omi’s birthday isnt fer another few months, but, like atsumu, i prepare early 😉 hopin to post the second part in a week or less, so keep an eye out!

  
Sakusa Kiyoomi eyes the time on his phone as the minutes empty into a new hour.This is it.

“Happy Birthday,” he singsongs to himself as he sucks down the last of the champagne in his flute.

At first it felt silly to do his and Motoya’s traditions all by himself, but half a bottle in and he’s having fun.Maybe too much fun.There’s music rolling through his usually quiet apartment, more charcuterie than one man could ever think to eat laid out on the bar counter, and his skin is double soft from using two of those expensive sheet masks.He might never go back to one. 

Tonight, Kiyoomi is in rare form, and tonight, Motoya is missing out.They video called earlier when he was only one glass in and Motoya was disembarking his plane, but it wasn’t the same.Kiyoomi should have expected being an adult would mean growing lonelier and lonelier each passing year, losing traditions to time like everything else. 

Kiyoomi debates pouring one out, then pours himself another glass instead.He can sit around and be sad when it’s no longer his birthday.Tonight, he chooses fun.

Another song starts up and, at first, the knocking belongs to the beat.Kiyoomi is nodding his head to it, swaying his hips in the way that sober him could never, would never.When it breaks free of the rhythm to take on shape of its own, he pauses the music, tightens his robe, and heads to the door.He has no expectations, though he wouldn’t mind a lost delivery man, all sharp in his perfectly pressed uniform. 

“Yes please,” Kiyoomi’s brain gremlins make themselves heard in their drunken stupor. 

Who is he to disappoint?Kiyoomi loosens his robe back up ever so slightly, leans against the wall with his champagne glass in hand, and opens the door.

Disappointingly, Miya Atsumu is not dressed in a delivery uniform.He is, however, fresh from a shower, hair damp and smelling of that citrus shampoo.Kiyoomi leans in a little, inhaling deeper.This might be his favorite scent in the world, the way it rolls off Atsumu to linger in the air, crisp and clean and bright.Kiyoomi would never admit to buying a bottle, keeping it around for those practice-less days.Never.

Atsumu is staring at him, eyes wide and jaw slack, but he can’t bring himself to care.Kiyoomi is too busy drinking him up like the champagne in his flute, tilting closer and closer to the rim as he leans in.Atsumu looks good — too good.His grey chinos are fitted so well they should be illegal and his button up is printed with little foxes jumping and playing, having a party.How fitting.

“Omi-kun?”Atsumu finds his words.“Yer ‘bout to spill yer drink.”

Kiyoomi straightens back up.“What are you doing here?” he manages, still eyeing that perfectly pressed shirt.

“Are you expectin’ someone?”Atsumu looks both ways down the hall like he, too, expects the mythical delivery man to appear.Tragedy for the both of them, really.

“Don’t you know not to answer someone’s question with a question?”Kiyoomi laughs at himself, with himself; he could play this game all night.

Atsumu gives him a funny smile, not one of the ones Kiyoomi has catalogued.“Dang Omi-Omi, yer kinda tipsy aren’t ya?”

“What of it?”He takes a spiteful sip from his glass.“It’s my birthday.”

“I know.”Atsumu chuckles.“And I also know yer a fuckin’ liar.Plans with Motoya-kun, my ass.I saw his press post; his whole team’s in China right now.”

“Bastard,” Kiyoomi mutters to himself like Motoya has any say over his posts.Even so, he deserves it for ruining the perfect excuse to turn down every torturous celebration suggestion Bokuto and Hinata tried to pitch.No way in hell was he spending his birthday at a crowded bar or a grimy amusement park.

“Me?”Atsumu is making one of Kiyoomi’s favorite faces, the one where his eyes go wide and his lips part, all slick and inviting.

Surely, he doesn’t stare for over a minute before shaking it out of his head.“Why are you here?” he tries again.

Atsumu rubs the shaved part at the back of his neck like he always does when he’s nervous.It must feel calming, reassuring, and Kiyoomi wants to do it for him; he wants to have his turn.

And so do the gremlins.They’re pushing him forward, unlocking all his restraints, telling him to—

“I brought you a birthday present” —Atsumu’s eyes slide from the ground to his— “but I can give it to ya some other time if now’s no good.”

A birthday present?Kiyoomi drops his half-raised hand.“Why would now be no good?It’s my birthday.”

“So you’ve told me.”Atsumu laughs and Kiyoomi doesn’t get the joke, but he’s not ignorant to how Atsumu’s eyes keep drifting to the neckline of his black silk robe, pulled open wide to show off his collarbones.

Kiyoomi raises a brow.On a normal day, he might be embarrassed, answering the door like some sort of desperate lush.Tonight, half drunk and a quarter dangerous, he smirks. 

What a situation he’s found himself in.Comical, really.

He’ll take it.

“Come in.”Kiyoomi downs his glass and takes a step back.“Wash your hands and take off your clothes and all that, and I’ll pour you one.”

Atsumu is midway through pulling off his shoes when he starts, falling against the wall.“Take off my what?”

“The robe is a birthday party tradition,” Kiyoomi states the obvious.“You can wear Motoya’s since he doesn’t get to.”

Atsumu stands there, one shoe on and one shoe off, absolutely bewildered.

Kiyoomi is making perfect sense, isn’t he?He’s not that drunk, is he?Well, maybe.

“Problem?” he asks.

Atsumu shakes his head slowly at first, speeding up until it’s jerking left and right.Then he yanks his remaining shoe off and follows Kiyoomi into the kitchen, depositing his bag on one of the bar stools.

“Do you always do this?” Atsumu asks as he scrubs his hands in the sink.“All the fancy food” —he nods his head to the spread on the counter— “and the champagne and the robes?”

“Motoya and I do it every year.It’s our tradition.”Kiyoomi tugs the stopper out of the bottle with a satisfying pop.“Was, I suppose.”

Atsumu is quiet for a moment.“Do yer parents or yer siblin’s come over too?” 

Kiyoomi snorts, nearly spilling the champagne as he pours it.“Does it look like I’m dressed to see my family?”

His father would probably have a heart attack if he saw Kiyoomi like this: half naked and further loosening his inhibitions with another glass of champagne.His mother would simply frown, her default reaction to everything he does.And as for his siblings, Kiyoomi has no clue; he doesn’t know them well enough to tell.

“No, I guess not.”Atsumu pats his hands dry.“Motoya-kun doesn’t count then?”

Motoya counts more than all Kiyoomi’s family combined, though he doesn’t say so.It sounds pathetic for his cousin to be his best friend, his only real friend, the one person Kiyoomi could always trust to be there.It sounds even more pathetic that he’s absent. 

It is pathetic, but oh well.Kiyoomi can sit around and be sad about it tomorrow.Tonight, he chooses fun.

“What’s with all the questions?”He holds his hands out, palms up.“Let me see.”

“What?”Atsumu makes his confused face again and Kiyoomi can barely stand it.Who gave him the right to look like that?

“Your hands,” he prompts, “for inspection.”

“Oh.”Atsumu puts them on display, hovering a wary centimeter above Kiyoomi’s in an unusually hesitant, annoying way, like they’ve swapped places with their usual selves. 

Kiyoomi grabs them by the fingers and pulls them closer to get a better look.How Atsumu keeps his hands and nails in such perfect condition, he’ll never know. 

Actually — that’s a lie.

Kiyoomi does know; he knows far too well.Many a time he’s watched Atsumu file away at them, coat them with thick lotion, stretch them out joint by joint.He has an entire mental file cabinet filled with those images.Without thinking, Kiyoomi starts to do it himself, bending Atsumu’s fingers back and forth, one by one.

“Is this also part of yer tradition?” Atsumu asks over the giggling of the gremlins.

Kiyoomi glances up to find his cheeks flushed.How red will they get once he starts drinking?The thought alone is enough to bump the danger level up a notch.Tonight, the gremlins grow deafening, drowning out the usual warning sirens.

“Could be,” Kiyoomi thinks aloud, and turns his attention back to those intriguing fingers, stretching and squeezing and prodding.He could do this for hours.He would do this for hours.But as he moves deeper, leaving fingers behind to dig into palms, Atsumu sucks in a sharp breath to break the trance. 

“Inspection passed.”Kiyoomi trades those hands for his champagne glass and takes a long sip.“Let’s get you a robe.”He turns on his heel.

“Wait!” 

Kiyoomi stops and peers over his shoulder to find Atsumu holding one hand in the other.

“Are ya sure about this?”His fingers press tight to each other in Kiyoomi’s absence.

Kiyoomi raises a brow.“Do you not want to?”

“I mean, pretty sure sober you wouldn’t even let me in yer place.”Atsumu’s knuckles have gone white.“I don’t wanna crash yer party.”

“Do you not like me?” Kiyoomi asks the question he’s always wanted to ask before he remembers he’s afraid of the answer.Champagne confidence truly is something else.

“No!That’s not what I meant.If anythin’, I—” Atsumu’s hands break free of the pressure and they’re waving in the air, trying their hardest to clear it. 

Kiyoomi wants to ask what he means, wants to uncover those words, but a wave of alcohol-induced haze crashes over him and he loses his own to the surf.

“Yer different right now, that’s all.”Atsumu’s hands fall to his side.

Different?Kiyoomi purses his lips.“Well, I am older.”

“Yer somethin’ else, Omi-kun.”Atsumu grins and shakes his head.“Okay, let’s party.”

——

Replenished glass in hand, Kiyoomi crouches down to the bottom drawer under the bathroom counter and retrieves Motoya’s robe, still neatly wrapped in a delicate layer of tissue paper. 

“Here.”He holds it up.“Nice and new.”

“Thanks, Omi-Omi.”Atsumu takes it from him and the paper crinkles, crying out in his strong grip.

Kiyoomi’s head follows the noise all the way up until he finds himself on the floor, champagne sloshing around in his glass.From this angle, Atsumu towers over him and Kiyoomi has a good, long look at the underside of his sharp jaw, the way his Adam’s apple moves up and down as he swallows.Kiyoomi swallows with it, trying to recall if he turned the music back on.Atsumu is swaying to it, but Kiyoomi’s ears can’t seem to pick up the beat.

“You okay down there?”Atsumu leans against the marble countertop, holding back a laugh, and Kiyoomi realizes he wasn’t moving at all.

“I’m a bit dizzy,” he admits.

“Geez, Omi-kun.”Atsumu holds out a hand.“I’ve never seen ya this drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Kiyoomi insists as he slides his fingers into that hand, as it closes around his own, sealing their fate.

Atsumu pulls him up too far, too fast, and droplets of champagne rain over the marble as they collide.Kiyoomi lets out a laugh, surprised by how they’re slotted together, his thigh splitting Atsumu’s thick legs to hold him against the counter. 

What a situation he’s found himself in.Comical, really.

Atsumu laughs too, but it’s stunted and high, and he drops Kiyoomi’s hand like it’s on fire.His other hand stays put, burning dangerous and low on Kiyoomi’s back, anchoring him in place while the world around them spins.

“Touch him,” the gremlins chant as they tumble around in his head. 

Who is he to disappoint?Kiyoomi puts his abandoned hand to good use, running his fingertips along the sharp crease of Atsumu’s collar.Perfectly pressed — exactly how he likes it.

“Omi-kun?” Atsumu interrupts the cheering in his head.

“Hmm?”Kiyoomi’s disobedient fingers stray from their path to brush Atsumu’s neck, and the grip on his lower back tightens in turn, dragging their thighs together.

“Is this” —Atsumu shifts beneath him— “also part of yer tradition?”

“Is this a new shirt?” Kiyoomi continues his game, trailing a path down Atsumu’s chest with his fingertips, fox after fox after fox.

“Uh, yeah, I—”

Each circle Kiyoomi draws around one of the mischievous little creatures steals another word right from Atsumu’s lips.Who knew this was all it took to quiet him? 

“I thought so,” Kiyoomi whispers as he drags a line from the jumping fox near Atsumu’s shoulder to the top button of his collar.“I would have remembered this one.”

With a twist of his fingers, Kiyoomi sets it free. 

“Wait.”Atsumu takes him by the wrist before he can reach the second.“Ya got yer drink in yer hair.”

Before Kiyoomi can register the words, Atsumu is breaking their seal, sliding free to reach for a hand towel and leaving Kiyoomi to face himself in the mirror.He leans in to meet his reflection, blinking slowly.Atsumu is right — there are drops of champagne dotting his curls and the countertop and the sleeve of his robe. 

What a mess he’s made.What a mess he is.

“I am drunk,” he finally admits, turning away from it all.

“That’s fer sure.”Atsumu lets out a chuckle and starts dabbing at Kiyoomi’s hair.

He’s gentle and careful, and Kiyoomi watches that top button bounce around with his open collar as he works.

“Free him,” the gremlins cry, but by the time he reaches out, Atsumu is already moving away, folding the towel in half and swiping it along the counter.

“Think I got it all.”Atsumu props a hand on his hip and inspects his work.

Kiyoomi frowns.“Stop cleaning.”

“Well, that’s two words I never thought I’d hear outta yer mouth.”Atsumu raises his brows and laughs.“Who are ya and what have you done with my Omi-Omi?”

“Huh?”Kiyoomi doesn’t get the joke; he doesn’t find it funny.“I’m not yours.”

For a split second, Atsumu’s lips press together.But then he’s plucking Kiyoomi’s glass right from his hand and swirling the remaining liquid around and around.

“Exactly.”He throws it back.“Wow, that’s good stuff.”

Kiyoomi blinks.“That was mine.”

“Yer still thirsty, huh?”Atsumu’s hand returns to Kiyoomi’s back, leading him out.“Go on, have some water.I’ll meet ya there.”

The door shuts in Kiyoomi’s face, throwing him into another dizzy spell, and, as he holds tightly to the wall, himself, nothing, it occurs to him Atsumu is right again — Kiyoomi should really drink some water.

——

Kiyoomi’s phone buzzes on the kitchen countertop, rudely interrupting his water chugging contest with himself.Oh well.He was losing anyways. 

Motoya’s messaged him, asking if he’s staying hydrated.Kiyoomi glances around from his seat on the stool.Sometimes —like right now— he suspects Motoya might be a mind reader.It’s not improbable, really, the way he always seems to know exactly what’s going on in Kiyoomi’s life.Either that, or he’s planted a hidden camera.His phone goes off again as his eyes do a quick sweep of the kitchen. 

“Enjoy your birthday present,” the latest message reads, and tacked onto the end is Motoya’s favorite emoji: the purple devil wearing an evil grin.

Kiyoomi stares at it for far too long.What does the little devil have to do with a new subscription to  _Volleyball Monthly_?Motoya’s gotten him the same gift every year, another one of their traditions.They weren’t breaking that too; Kiyoomi already received the renewal notification a few days back.

Regardless, that devil keeps on grinning at him, giving a face to his gremlins.Soon enough, they’re all chanting together, “birthday present.”

“Birthday present,” Kiyoomi parrots back, reminded.

Atsumu brought him a birthday present.

Because he saw Motoya’s post.

Press post.

The post sits at the top of Kiyoomi’s feed, the only one Motoya’s put up all day.He stares at the timestamp, trying to make sense of the numbers, trying to understand why they match his birth hour exactly.Right before Atsumu arrived — too close to when Atsumu arrived.

The sound of the bathroom door opening cascades down the hall and slaps Kiyoomi right in the face. 

“Bastard,” he cries, pressing his burning forehead to the countertop while the gremlins cackle.

“You called, Omi-kun?”Atsumu chuckles at his own joke, laughter joining the caucus.

Kiyoomi can’t look up.He can’t move.He can’t do anything.Not when he read that entire situation so incredibly wrong. 

“Did Motoya tell you to come here?” he demands, sobering from the whiplash.

“No!Well, not really.”Atsumu is a shit liar.

“Oh my god.”Kiyoomi bangs his head on the counter once—

“Okay, he did message me, but only to tell me yer plans got cancelled and that I should bring you yer—” 

—twice—

“Would ya stop doin’ that?”Atsumu’s hand appears between Kiyoomi and the counter as he goes in for a third. 

Unlike the chilly countertop, it’s soft and warm against his forehead, robbing him of his much-needed hurt.Unfair.

“I don’t even know how he knew I had a present fer ya,” Atsumu continues.“He’s like some kinda mind reader or somethin’.”

“Wait.”Kiyoomi lifts his head off that hand to stare at it.“You do actually have a birthday present for me?”

“Yeah?I told ya I did.I kinda bought it a while back,” Atsumu admits.“I was gonna give it to ya at practice, but I forgot.”

“You forgot?”How did he forget?All Hinata, Bokuto, and Atsumu did the whole morning was bother Kiyoomi about his birthday plans.

“Okay, I didn’t forget.I couldn’t find the right time.”

“It’s something weird, isn’t it?” he accuses Atsumu’s hand.This is all some elaborate joke — it has to be.

“What?No!Yer gonna really like it, I think.”His thumb starts stroking the side of his index finger.“I hope.”

Kiyoomi stares at that thumb moving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and his head fills with a few things he’d really like from Atsumu. 

Fuck.

Fuck Motoya.Fuck him and his gremlins and their stupid devil faces, still kicking around in his head.Atsumu is still blocking the damn countertop, so Kiyoomi forgoes a good slam and shakes his head instead.Hard.He can’t believe he listened to those monsters, fell right into their trap.What the hell was he thinking? 

Atsumu isn’t some faceless delivery man; he’s Kiyoomi’s fucking teammate, someone he has to be around every day, look at every day, want every day.Like that isn’t already hard enough.

“I’m so sorry,” Kiyoomi says as he knifes the gremlins one by one.“I’m sorry that I made you uncomfortable.”

Atsumu’s hand leaves him, but he stays close, sitting on the stool beside Kiyoomi, shoulder to shoulder.“Yer fine, Omi-kun.”

“But I—”

“It takes a lot more than that to make me uncomfortable,” Atsumu cuts him off abruptly, tone pinched.

He’s still lying.Eyes shut, Kiyoomi can see it all.The nervous laugh when he had Atsumu pushed up against the counter, that hand stopping his pathetic attempt to unbutton his shirt, and —even better— Atsumu calling him thirsty and kicking him out. 

“Oh my god,” Kiyoomi repeats, ready to resume his head banging. 

Again, Atsumu’s hand stops him.This time it ghosts across his lower back, close and warm.

“S’this okay?”Atsumu’s voice is syrup in his ear, pouring into his brain.“Can I touch you?”

“You’re asking me if you can touch me?”Kiyoomi feels sticky, slimy.He can’t deserve this; not after everything he did.

“Yeah, I am.”That voice is back, threatening, promising to fill him to the brim.“I wanted to ask earlier, too.I shoulda asked earlier.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”Kiyoomi struggles to grasp something, anything, but everything is slippery and his fingers are shaking.

“Omi-kun, can I please touch you?”

Kiyoomi goes under.

Why?The question gurgles at the back of his throat, but all that comes out of his weak mouth is a simple, “yes.”

With it, those fingers start pressing into him, drawing circles of their own on his skin through the thin fabric of his robe.They’re so precise, so capable, so incredibly talented in the way they work, each shift of their touch plucking another bad thought from Kiyoomi’s brain.Who knew this was all it took to shut them up? 

“You all good now?” Atsumu breaks the newfound silence.

The bad thoughts aren’t the only thing he stole — there’s not a single word left in Kiyoomi.He clears his throat and does his best to make a noise like a yes.

“I’m all dressed fer the party.”Atsumu’s fingertips slide up his spine as he rises.“Wanna inspect?”

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath, willing himself to do the right thing.To say no.To tell Atsumu this was all a mistake and that he should leave.To recover even the tiniest shred of his decency before it’s too late.But he finds his weak self nodding, lifting his head, turning full-face toward the show.

And Miya Atsumu knows how to entertain.

He turns in a slow circle, hands gliding across the black.The robe wasn’t intended for him, but it would be blasphemous to think it could ever look this right on anyone else.Atsumu’s tied it tight —so tight— around his trim waist, and the silky fabric gathers there, clings to the curve of his hips and his thighs.More than enough of his obscenely muscular legs are left exposed by the short hem, resting well above his knees.

Kiyoomi bites down on the inside of his cheek, head emptying until there’s nothing but silk on skin. 

“Do I pass?” Atsumu grins like he already knows the answer, and in that moment, Kiyoomi could swear there are little horns poking out of his mussed hair.

All he can see is that devil with his evil grin and, somehow, Motoya’s weaseled his way off Kiyoomi’s hit list. 

“Thanks,” he mutters like it will reach him all the way across the sea.

“I’m takin’ that as a yes.”Atsumu swipes a champagne glass off the counter — the one Kiyoomi filled for him before all this mess.“Never felt so got dang fancy before” —he swirls the shimmering liquid around and around— “I see why ya got all these traditions now.”

Atsumu doesn’t wait for a response.He raises the glass high and looks Kiyoomi directly in the eyes.“Happy Birthday, Omi-kun!” 

Together, they drink, Kiyoomi downing the rest of his water, hoping, praying it will alleviate his thirst. 

Unlikely.

Especially when Atsumu is standing like that, one hand holding tight to the delicate stem of the champagne flute and the other at his waist, fingers hooked precariously into the tie, loosening it ever so slightly.

“Wanna open yer present?”Atsumu smirks.

Kiyoomi blinks. 

In no way is this part of his birthday tradition.But maybe —just maybe— it’s time for a new one.


	2. New Traditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready to enjoy the mess!!! (sorry again, omi) maybe theyll clean it up tomorrow... who knows 👀

The box is small, wrapped in gold paper so shiny Kiyoomi can see his fuzzy reflection. He stares at himself staring at himself, trying to recall the last time someone outside of his family gave him a birthday present. An actual, wrapped birthday present — not some sports drink or a protein bar with happy birthday scribbled on it thrown at him in the middle of practice from unwashed hands.

This is quite possibly the first time. 

Kiyoomi blinks again and again, reflection growing fuzzier with each flash of black.

“Sorry my wrappin’ ain’t pretty.” Atsumu leans forward, elbows on the counter gracious enough to block the view of his neckline. “It’s harder than it looks, ya know.”

The wrapping is fine —good, even— with crisp folds and sharp, straight cuts. In fact, it’s too good, too much for Kiyoomi. He pretends to push his hair out of his face and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. The silk comes away streaked, ruined, adding to the mess of dried champagne dots. 

Why? He’s not supposed to sit around and be sad tonight.

Kiyoomi’s supposed to be getting drunk with Motoya, stuffing his sheet-masked face with charcuterie while they talk shit about their family and laugh about their teammates and lament about their love lives. He’s supposed to be dancing around his apartment in this perfect, silky robe, swaying his hips until he collapses on the couch in a haze of happy exhaustion. He’s supposed to be choosing fun. 

Kiyoomi is absolutely not supposed to be here, slouched over, tailbone digging into the hard wood of a bar stool, on the verge of messy crying over a present from his— 

Teammate? Coworker? Enemy-turned-annoyance-turned-vaguely-friend?

—whatever he calls Atsumu, it won’t change the fact he’s the one who drives Kiyoomi insane with want, who has everything he doesn’t: friends who adore him, family who wants to spend time with him, the ability to look at someone and make them feel like they’re the only person in the world that matters. Kiyoomi wants to be that person, the only person, but that person is every fucking person Atsumu makes eye contact with.

Wow. 

What a situation he’s found himself in. Not comical in the slightest.

“You okay, Omi-kun?” Atsumu leans even closer, citrus scent suffocating.

“I’m fine,” Kiyoomi manages as he chokes on it. 

He can’t look at Atsumu, he can’t look at himself. He turns the box around and around and around in his hands, trying and failing to escape his reflection.

“Aren’t ya gonna open it?”

Both of them are staring at him. Both of them are waiting.

“Geez, ya act like you never got a birthday present before. I promise it’s nothin’ weird.” Atsumu rubs at the back of his neck and Kiyoomi can’t even appreciate it.

He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath.

“Yer killin' me, Omi-Omi. Open it already.”

“Sorry,” he exhales as he slides his finger between the edge of the paper and tugs the tape free. 

Fuzzy Kiyoomi is gone, replaced by images of some sort of phone case with bright blue lights. The characters printed across the surface are too blurry to read no matter how much he blinks.

“I hope I got the right one,” Atsumu fills the silence. “Ya put yer phone in there and it charges it and cleans it at the same time with UV light. I saw it at the market near ‘Samu’s place on New Year’s and it made me think of ya.”

Atsumu was thinking of him on New Year’s. 

Kiyoomi was thinking of Atsumu on New Year’s, too. 

In fact, that’s when he resolved to stop thinking about Atsumu, to stop being hurt every time a new tagged photo of him appeared. People he knew, people he didn’t, men, women: all with their hands around Atsumu, on Atsumu, in Atsumu’s. Those hands — Kiyoomi wanted those hands for himself. He still does; not strong enough to stick to that resolution for more than a day.

The box is shaking like there’s something living inside of it, clawing away, trying to break free. No — it’s only Kiyoomi’s hands. His weird, bendy, lanky hands that can’t ever hide how he feels, that can’t hold on to anything, weak for fear of loss.

“You hate it, don’t ya?” Atsumu’s voice has lost all its energy, all its volume. “Damn, I shoulda gone with—”

“No!” Kiyoomi’s stolen it from him. “I like it.”

“Really?”

Kiyoomi looks up and Atsumu’s grinning so bright it makes his eyes water.

“Wait, are you lyin’?” The smile drops off his face, but Kiyoomi’s blurry vision remains. “Why are ya cryin’ if you like it?”

“I’m not crying.” Kiyoomi sniffs. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

“Yer real confusin’, ya know that?” Atsumu reaches toward his face and Kiyoomi jerks back.

“It’s okay if ya don’t like it. I won’t be upset.” Atsumu’s brows slide together as his hand drops. “Well, a little, but it’s no big deal.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I like it?” Kiyoomi cries out, cheeks wet.

“Then why are ya cryin’? Why are ya pullin’ away from me like I did somethin’ bad?”

“Because no one ever gave me a birthday present before!” Kiyoomi is yelling and he doesn’t know why. 

Atsumu’s mouth falls open. “Yer kiddin’.”

“Not like this.” Kiyoomi’s voice fades away. “Not like you.”

The box grows infinitely heavy in his weak hands, breaking free and falling to his lap when Atsumu pulls him into his chest. There’s a hand in his hair, threading into his curls and one on his back, keeping him as the stool teeters precariously. Even if it fell right out from under him, that hand alone would hold him up, protect him from harm. He knows it.

“What the hell,” Atsumu’s voice rumbles through silk and skin as his fingertips dig into Kiyoomi’s scalp. “Yer really serious.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t like the way those words sink in, the way they twist his insides and tighten his chest. He tries to pull back, but those hands won’t let him go.

“Don’t pity me,” he chokes out. “I don’t want it.”

“I’m not, Omi-kun. I promise.” Atsumu holds him even tighter, squeezing it out of him, ruining his own robe with the mess of it all. “I’m just pissed I didn’t get ya anything last year, or the year before, or the year before that. Fuck, ever since I first knew ya.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.” Kiyoomi sniffs up the last of it, swallows it down, and seals it away.

“I don’t care. If I could go back in time, I’d get ya a birthday present every year.” Atsumu releases him finally, hands sliding to his shoulder and waist. They linger there for a moment that stretches on and stops short simultaneously, a moment Kiyoomi wishes he could hold on to.

“I know” —Atsumu presses his thumb to his lip— “I’ll give ya two every year from here on out!”

“Stop.” Kiyoomi adds the leftover mess of his face to his sleeve, destroying it beyond repair. “Don’t say that.”

“Too late.” Atsumu gives him a stupidly large grin, one of Kiyoomi’s absolute favorites. It’s the face he makes when he’s excited, when he’s hopeful, when no one in the world can bring him down, and it never fails to make Kiyoomi’s heart lighter, even now.

“One present is more than enough,” he insists, lifting it from his lap and holding it properly, steady. It really is a good gift: useful, purposeful, thoughtful — too thoughtful.

“You being here is enough,” he adds.

Atsumu tilts his head. “Bein’ a party guest don’t count as a present.”

“Then I didn’t give you a birthday present this year.” Kiyoomi sets the box on the counter, trading it for guilt. 

“Nuh-uh, you did, remember?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t. He blocked most of that awful night out — too many crowded bars, too many different people in Atsumu’s lap pressing birthday kisses to his alcohol-flushed face, that one guy who cornered Atsumu the moment Kiyoomi turned away, trying to ply him with a questionable drink. Far too sober to be there, Kiyoomi had never come so close to choosing violence, and he had never been so grateful to Bokuto for beating him to it.

The only good thing about playing designated driver that night was being the one to take Atsumu home, listening to him ramble drunk and happy until his eyes closed.

“Ya gave me yer jacket ‘cause I was cold in the car,” Atsumu reminds him, smiling softly. “The black one with the gold linin’.”

That’s right. Kiyoomi never asked for it back — in part because Atsumu drooled on it after he passed out, but also because, like the robe, like everything else, it looked better on him anyways.

“That doesn’t count.” Kiyoomi makes it a point not to look at Atsumu.

“Does too,” Atsumu argues. “I still wear it sometimes.”

Kiyoomi’s rebuttal dies in his mouth and suddenly he’s far too sober to be here.

“I need a drink,” he says, sliding off his stool.

“Don’t change the subject, Mr. Thirsty!” Atsumu calls after him. “I’m still thinkin’ on yer second gift.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t humor him. “Where’s my glass?” 

“I left it in the bathroom.”

The bathroom. No way in hell is he going back in there.

“Fuck it.” Kiyoomi takes a swig right out of the bottle.

“Yer somethin’ else, Omi-kun.” Atsumu shakes his head with a laugh. “Give it here.”

After one more lengthy sip, Kiyoomi hands the bottle over. It’s nearly empty now, and Atsumu throws it back in two big gulps. A drop escapes the corner of his lips, snaking down the side of his chin, and Kiyoomi swears he can hear the gremlins rising from the dead.

Before they have a chance, he pulls the already-ruined sleeve of his robe over his thumb and swipes it away, adding Atsumu to his mess.

Atsumu catches him by the wrist and locks him in his gaze. The look. The one that kills Kiyoomi inside only to resurrect him over and over and over. The one he wants to keep for himself.

“Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi tenses. “Yes?”

“If you could have anythin’ right now” —Atsumu’s thumb brushes back and forth, sliding over the messy silk— “what would ya want?”

You.

The word is stuck in his throat and the gremlins are coming alive, screaming his want to the world, ready to expose him.

Kiyoomi fights it, fights them, fights himself. He won’t be fooled by that look, no matter what it says. He has to be strong, he has to break free of it, but his lips are parting and the word is crawling toward his tongue. He can’t stop it. Something has to save him, anything—

Kiyoomi’s stomach growls loud enough to shock the gremlins into silence.

“I’m hungry,” he blurts out, but he doesn’t say for what.

For a split second, Atsumu presses his lips together. But then he’s releasing Kiyoomi and huffing the breath of a laugh. 

“Me too.” 

He doesn’t say for what.

——

“I don’t even know where to start.” Atsumu leans forward, neckline of his robe gaping as he surveys the spread.

Kiyoomi swallows, and when Atsumu licks his lips, he has to swallow again. 

“Let me help you.” He forces his eyes away from the scene, selecting a rye cracker. “A little bit of this” —he spreads a thin layer of fig jam across it with the knife— “topped with goat’s cheese.”

“Goat’s cheese?” Atsumu looks at him like he’s crazy.

“Don’t give me that look.” Kiyoomi holds it out. “Try it.”

Atsumu opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, waiting.

“I’m not feeding you,” Kiyoomi refuses. “That’s not part of the tradition.”

Atsumu wiggles his tongue, not giving up, and Kiyoomi should find it disgusting. He should find it annoying. Even finding it cute might be acceptable. But no — Kiyoomi finds it attractive. Damn that robe.

He gingerly deposits the cracker on Atsumu’s tongue if only to make it stop.

Atsumu tilts his head, chewing thoughtfully, then swallows with a smile. “Okay, Mr. Fancy, that’s good.”

“Mr. Fancy?” Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. “I thought I was Mr. Thirsty.”

“I dunno, are ya?” Atsumu winks and reaches across the board for a cracker. “Lemme make you one.”

Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu heaps apple marmalade onto the thin wafer cracker and loads it with layers of prosciutto and smoked gouda. Acceptable — until he tops it off with a single pickle.

“That’s disgusting.” Kiyoomi turns his nose up at it.

“Hey, I tried yers.” Atsumu pouts, holding it out, prompting him.

“Fine.” Kiyoomi goes to take it from his hand and Atsumu pulls it back.

“Nuh-uh. You have to let me feed it to ya.”

“That’s unsanitary,” Kiyoomu refuses, crossing his arms. “Plus, you’ll probably miss my mouth and make a mess.”

“Come on, Omi-kun. Only place my hands have been tonight is all over you,” Atsumu teases. “They can’t be that dirty.”

Kiyoomi’s cheeks grow hot with his glare.

“Unless yer sayin’ yer dirty.” Atsumu’s brows lift ever so slightly, and Kiyoomi becomes all too aware of that gap in his robe, the sliver of his bare chest on display, growing wider and wider and—

“Shut up,” he says to both the gremlins and Atsumu.

Careful not to touch Atsumu’s fingers with his tongue, Kiyoomi takes the questionable experiment. When he bites down, a glob of marmalade squeezes out, escaping to rest on his bottom lip. His face puckers at the taste and before he can even swallow, Atsumu’s thumb is there, tracing his lip and stealing the mess away. As if that isn’t enough, Atsumu sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean. Kiyoomi nearly chokes.

“Fuck—” he coughs into his sleeve, mouth full of sour and salty and sweet. It’s too much all at once, same as this night.

“That bad?” Atsumu grimaces. “Guess there’s a reason I’m not the Onigiri Miya.”

Kiyoomi leaves his seat in search of something to clean his mouth and his mind. 

“Stick to what you’re good at, then,” he barks, reaching for a tumbler.

“And what’s that?” Atsumu asks as if he doesn’t already know.

Kiyoomi shoots him a glance over his shoulder. “Guess.”

“Well, it sure as hell ain’t bein’ a party guest,” Atsumu laments. “I made ya freak out, then I made ya cry, and now I made ya choke.”

“You didn’t make me do any of that.” Kiyoomi sighs and pulls down his handle of whiskey from the top cabinet. “Well, maybe the choking” —he pours it neat— “and I didn’t freak out.”

“You were bangin’ yer head on the counter. Don’t try to tell me that’s part of yer tradition, too.”

“Only when you’re involved,” Kiyoomi mutters into his glass.

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kiyoomi throws the whiskey back in lieu of an answer. The burn does nothing to cover the other flavors; it only adds to them, bitter joining the mix. He starts to pour another, ready to enter whole drunk and dangerous territory.

“Wait.” Atsumu appears beside him, stealing the bottle mid-pour without spilling a single drop. “Yer not supposed to drink when yer angry.”

“I’m not angry.” Kiyoomi glares.

“Yeah, and ya weren’t drunk in the bathroom or freakin’ out at the counter or cryin’ when I gave ya a present, were ya?” Atsumu twists the lid back on the bottle. “So are ya gonna talk to me ‘bout it or what?”

“What.” Kiyoomi turns away and leans back against the counter, arms crossed. There’s nothing to talk about, nothing he can say that won’t make things worse.

“Omi-Omi, don’t be like this.” Atsumu’s hands find the edge on either side of him, boxing him in. “Talk to me.”

Face to face, Atsumu isn’t angry, isn’t crying, isn’t freaking out. He probably isn’t even drunk. He’s looking up at Kiyoomi like he cares, like Kiyoomi is the only person that matters, the only person that could ever matter. 

Unbearable. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” Kiyoomi scowls.

“Why not?” Atsumu doesn’t stop.

“Don’t look at me like you look at everybody else,” Kiyoomi spits out.

“Like I look at everybody else?” Atsumu repeats, eyes growing wide and lips parting, all slick and inviting. 

The face doesn’t last.

“If that’s what ya think, then yer fuckin’ blind!” Atsumu snaps.

Kiyoomi loses his glare to confusion, and they’ve swapped places so fast the whiplash leaves him dizzy. Or maybe that’s the whiskey.

“Is this what ya want fer yer birthday, then?” Atsumu shoves his face closer, eyes hard. “Ya want me to suffer?”

“Huh?” Kiyoomi squints.

“Ya wanna throw yerself at me, make me think you might actually like me just so ya can tell me yer not mine like I don’t already know it.” Atsumu’s face twists up, vile, hurt. “Ya wanna look at me like I’m everythin’, only to turn up yer nose when I offer myself, like I don’t already know I’m not good enough fer ya.”

Not good enough? Kiyoomi’s eyes grow wide and his lips part.

“If you were sober, ya wouldn’t have even let me in yer place to begin with — I know it.” Atsumu huffs.

“No—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Atsumu growls, “not when yer lookin’ me right in the face. Do whatever ya want to me, but don’t do that. I can’t take it anymore.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do. He’s angry, he’s sad, he’s freaking out. And, to top it all off, he’s edging on drunk — no, he’s absolutely careening. Flying over the ledge and free falling into the churning waters.

“I should go.” Atsumu pulls back and squeezes out a long blink, sharp lines of his face melting away. “I’m sorry fer yellin’ at ya, I really am, but I gotta go.”

“Wait!” Kiyoomi grabs his hands before they can leave the counter. “I never told you what you’re good at.”

“Huh?” Atsumu makes his confused face.

“That.” Kiyoomi’s grip is shaking. “You’re good at making that face.”

“What are you talkin’ ‘bout?” Atsumu tries to pull away.

Kiyoomi’s weak fingers are slipping. “You’re good at smelling nice, too, like citrus fruit.”

“Stop it.” Atsumu yanks one hand free, not even listening.

Kiyoomi has to hold on. He has to be heard.

“You look good in everything,” he blurts out, “in that fox shirt, in this robe, in the jacket I gave you on your birthday.”

Atsumu pauses.

“In this robe,” Kiyoomi adds. “Wait — I already said that.”

“Okay, now I know yer drunk.” Atsumu frowns, but he stops trying to leave.

Kiyoomi has to keep going.

“You’re good at giving presents and wrapping them, too,” he continues, “really good at it. Too good at it.”

“Omi-kun, ya gotta stop.” Atsumu blinks hard and fast. “If you keep sayin’ things like this, I’m gonna think ya actually like me.

“Good.” Kiyoomi smiles despite it all. “I’m not done.”

“Omi—”

“You’re good at touching me.” Kiyoomi cuts him off. “You’re so good at touching me, it’s scary.”

Atsumu doesn’t argue this time, but his face goes red like he took a shot of his own.

“You scare me,” Kiyoomi admits, smile faltering. “You’re so good, and everyone knows it. Everyone wants you to look at them, to spend time with them, to touch them. It drives me insane.”

Atsumu opens and closes his mouth again and again like he wants to say something.

“Everything about you drives me insane.” Kiyoomi’s squeezing that hand. He’s holding to it like he’ll never let go, like maybe he can keep it.

“But—”

“When you asked me what I wanted, I was too scared to say—” Kiyoomi frowns, trying for the words. “I wanted to say—” Kiyoomi grits his teeth and huffs. “I wasn’t lying about being hungry.”

Atsumu eyes him cautiously. “Yer so drunk, ya can’t even talk straight.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kiyoomi argues. “Why do you think Motoya messaged you? He’s tired of hearing me complain about it, year after year after year.”

Atsumu raises a brow and Kiyoomi’s gaze travels down his arm, all the way to that hand, tight in his grip.

“That’s the real tradition,” he tells the truth. “We get drunk and I whine about how much I want to hold your fucking hand.” 

It’s pathetic. Kiyoomi’s face grows hot. He’s pathetic.

“You—” Atsumu lets out a laugh and gives his head a little shake. “Yer kiddin’ me.”

He’s laughing at Kiyoomi. He’s laughing like this is all some big joke, like Kiyoomi is some big joke. Kiyoomi drops that hand like it’s on fire.

“Fuck.” Atsumu laughs harder, hand grasping at his own chest. “Why didn’t ya fuckin’ say so?”

“I don’t see what’s so funny.” Kiyoomi glares.

“Yer somethin’ else, Omi-kun.” Atsumu shakes his head. “All this time.” He laughs again, smaller, gentler, quieter. “I was at ‘Samu’s when Motoya-kun messaged me. Ya know what he told me?”

Kiyoomi’s brows come together.

“He said if I didn’t go, he was gonna disown me — said he’s so sick of my pinin’.” Atsumu makes an exaggerated grimace. “I made him walk ‘round that market fer three hours on New Year’s ‘til I found the right present fer ya. He was so pissed when I came home with it, he threw an onigiri at me.”

“He what?” Kiyoomi asks.

“I’m serious. Look.” Atsumu yanks open his robe to show off a purple bruise on his side. “Damn thing hurt, too. Think he filled it with fuckin’ rocks.”

“Touch him,” yell the gremlins, back for more.

“Close that.” Kiyoomi ducks his face into the crook of his arm. 

“Huh?” Atsumu doesn’t listen. “Omi-kun, yer so dramatic. You see me in my underwear every fuckin’ day, ya weirdo.”

“It’s the robe.” Kiyoomi refuses to look. “And the gremlins.”

“Gremlins?” Atsumu chuckles.

Kiyoomi just shakes his head.

“You want me so bad, ya really are goin’ crazy,” Atsumu teases, wagging his brows.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Kiyoomi snaps and goes to push him away.

“I’m not, Omi-kun, I promise.” Atsumu holds his hand in place, palm pressed to his bare chest. “You can have me” —he traps Kiyoomi in that look— “you can have all of me.”

“I—” Kiyoomi bites the inside of his cheek. 

Seconds pass, minutes, before his fingers begin to move. They spread wide of their own volition, digging into Atsumu’s flesh if only to stop their shaking.

Atsumu sucks in a sharp breath, breaking the trance. “God, I love yer hands.”

“You what?” Kiyoomi blinks. Impossible.

“You heard me.” Atsumu’s fingers dig into his knuckles, helping them hold tight, stay steady. “You don’t know how long I’ve looked at them, wanted ‘em, imagined them on me. I ‘bout lost my mind when you started doin’ yer little inspection. And then ya went and touched my neck and damn near killed me.”

Kiyoomi lets out a little ‘heh.’

“Laugh all ya want now.” Atsumu returns Kiyoomi’s hand to him and ties up his robe. “When yer sober, you won’t stand a chance.”

“Guess I should take another shot then,” Kiyoomi threatens.

Atsumu raises a brow. “How ‘bout I take if fer ya?” 

“I don’t see how that’ll help me.” Kiyoomi is already unscrewing the bottle.

“Let’s be drunk together,” Atsumu suggests with a smile. “Let’s party together.”

“Alright.” Kiyoomi pours him a glass. “A double for you, Mr. Thirsty.”

“Nuh-uh, that’s yer nickname.” Atsumu smirks and takes a long sip. “Wow, that’s good stuff.”

“I think I prefer what you called me beforehand.” Kiyoomi pulls down a second tumbler glass and pours one for himself.

Atsumu makes his confused face, but only for a split second. “My Omi-Omi.” His stupidly large grin is back. “Mine.”

“You sound like a little kid when you say it like that.” Kiyoomi laughs, unable to be anything but happy.

“Mine, mine, mine,” Atsumu repeats, undeterred. “Yer all mine.”

Kiyoomi sips the whiskey this time, allowing the bitter to wash everything away. The longer it sits on his tongue, though, the more its true flavors come out. Warm, smoky, sweet: it tastes like fun if he so chooses, and tonight, Kiyoomi is choosing fun.

He swirls the honeyed liquid around and around in his glass and turns to Atsumu.

“I know what I want for my second present.”

——

There’s music rolling through Kiyoomi’s usually quiet apartment. It cascades down the hall to the bathroom, where a pile of clothes and an abandoned champagne flute lay in wait. It weaves through the kitchen, amongst the mess of empty bottles and half-eaten plates of charcuterie expiring on the counter. And it dances around the living room with the two of them, joined by the sound of Kiyoomi’s phone vibrating from inside the charging case, calling out for attention. Kiyoomi can’t bring himself to break their seal and check it.

Not when one of Atsumu’s hands burns dangerous and low on his back and the other threads into his curls, fingers gentle as they dig into his scalp. With Atsumu’s heavy head on his shoulder, smelling of citrus, crisp and bright and clean, Kiyoomi can nearly taste it as they sway.

“I never knew ya could dance, Omi-Omi.” Atsumu’s laugh is drunk and happy, and topped off with the tiniest hiccup.

“Only when you’re involved.” Kiyoomi runs a finger along the sharp edge of the black silk where it meets Atsumu’s neck. “Or copious amounts of champagne.”

Atsumu turns his head to give Kiyoomi a sly look. “Well, don’t make me feel special now.”

“You already are.” Kiyoomi buries his nose in that delicious hair.

“Kiss him,” the gremlins beg of him.

Who is he to disappoint? Kiyoomi presses the tiniest kiss to Atsumu’s forehead, so small and so light it’s barely there. Weak enough to go unnoticed.

But nothing is lost on Atsumu. “Is this part of yer tradition too?”

“It is now.” Kiyoomi kisses him again in the same spot, harder, stronger. “I want to keep this one.”

“Let’s do it every year.” Atsumu’s fingers press deep into Kiyoomi’s back, pulling him closer.

The playlist ends, but they’re still moving to music, swaying together to some imagined beat they’re creating, sharing.

“Thank you for being here,” Kiyoomi says, “I had fun.”

“Even though I made ya freak out and cry and get all angry?” Atsumu peers up, brows raised.

“Even though I made you suffer,” Kiyoomi fires back. “We’re even.”

“I dunno, are we?” Atsumu stands on his toes to look Kiyoomi eye to eye. “You got to give me two kisses.”

Kiyoomi comes to a halt. “What do you want?”

“Can I kiss you?” Atsumu’s hands find the sides of his face. “On the lips?”

“Greedy,” is all Kiyoomi can say, caught in that stare.

“Can I please kiss you, Omi-kun?” Atsumu repeats, undeterred.

The gremlins don’t say anything this time. They don’t need to.

Kiyoomi is already leaning in, fingers slipping under the edges of Atsumu’s robe as their lips meet. Their touch is tentative, wary, but then they’re moving together, dancing, and Atsumu tastes of the whiskey they drained from the bottle, warm and smoky and sweet. The taste of fun. 

Greedy, Kiyoomi wants it all for himself. He chases it with his tongue and they’re going down, down, down onto the couch, arms tangled and legs dragging together. Kiyoomi’s disobedient fingers tug on Atsumu’s waist tie to free him of it, to rid him of that silky black robe stained with the mess of the night. His hands wander while he trades Atsumu’s lips for his neck and his collarbones and his chest, one after the other until he has Atsumu sucking in a sharp breath, breaking the trance.

Somewhere, the gremlins are crying out, screaming their disappointment to the world, but all Kiyoomi can hear is Atsumu’s heart, hammering away deep in his chest. He presses his ear to it and hums.

“Now yer at three,” Atsumu pants, half laughing as he sinks deep into the couch cushions beneath their combined weight. “Unfair.”

“Might I remind you, it’s my birthday.” Kiyoomi settles in, letting his heavy eyelids rest. He wants to stay like this forever, be held by these hands. Kept.

“So you’ve told me.” Atsumu cards his fingers through Kiyoomi’s hair. “Happy Birthday, Omi-kun.”

That, it is. He doesn’t want to sit around and be sad ever again; he doesn’t want Atsumu to leave.

Atsumu’s fingers slow. “I’m ‘bout to fall asleep; I’m so comfy.”

“Me too.” Kiyoomi sighs. “What happens tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we wake up hungover as fuck.” Atsumu rests his hands on Kiyoomi’s back. “And then I help ya clean up and we cook breakfast together and then we end up right back here. Sober.”

Kiyoomi smiles. “I’m never getting rid of you, am I?”

“Yer mine, remember?” Atsumu squeezes him. “I’m keepin’ ya.”

“I can live with that.” He can live with this new tradition.

Time can keep on moving, keep on taking, and Kiyoomi will keep on getting drunk, freaking out, crying, touching, dancing, kissing. He’ll keep on doing all the traditions that make life worth living — all the traditions that make him know he’s no longer losing.


End file.
